Murder on Show, page 8
Taking a deep breath, the official said, ‘We’re busy here now, sir. Perhaps you could come back later. We might be able to let you in then.’
‘Ridiculous!’ Hugo Verrier screamed. ‘I insist on my rights. Where’s Rose Chesne-Malvern? She’ll tell you who I am!’
‘That’s right,’ Marcus Opal said softly behind me, ‘where is Rose? We haven’t seen her since that Insurance Investigator asked to speak to her privately – and that was hours ago.’
CHAPTER VIII
Unobtrusively, I started searching. I began in the Press Gallery. There were still a few of the Press around. We were News now, not just Features. I nodded to them, but managed to avoid them. I didn’t want anyone else asking me where Rose Chesne-Malvern was. Not until it was a question I could answer.
Through the plate-glass window of the overhanging booth, I studied the movement of traffic on the floor. Penny was at the stall now. Obviously inspired by the example of Kellington Dasczo, who was grooming Pearlie King, she had taken Pandora out of her pen and was brushing her. Pandora seemed quite happy with the procedure. Across the aisle, Betty Lington shook talcum powder into Silver Fir’s coat and fluffed it out to an improbable size.
I scanned the other aisles slowly. Quite a few of the long-distance Exhibitors had checked in now and were settling their cats into the pens.
But there was no sign of the trim, self-contained figure we all knew and loathed. A disturbance at the entrance to the Special Exhibits caught my eye. I watched as Carlotta Montera swung down that aisle, pulling a small wagon loaded with red meat.
The roars shook the Press Gallery, directly over the cage, and sent several nervous customers skittering for the safety of the Main Floor. I couldn’t see the cage itself, of course, but I had a prime view of Carlotta swaggering down towards it. The roars increased, the nearer she got.
I watched the pattern of traffic change on the floor. Drawn, however reluctantly, by the noise, all those who were in the immediate area moved to the cage. There was quite a crowd by the time Carlotta reached the end of the aisle.
I’d watched this performance from the floor, myself, last night. It was far more impressive from the overhanging balcony. She pushed the wagon under the guard rail and swung over the top of the rail herself, in a flurry of legs and swirling skirt. I saw her lips move as she approached the cage, and the movement of her arms as she slid up the trapdoor. Then she shovelled the first two pieces of meat inside with blurring swiftness. I knew they were being snatched out of her hands as they got within clawswipe of the trapdoor. It was probably too small a door for the animals to squeeze out of, in any case, but I wouldn’t have liked to take any firm bets on it.
She pushed the remaining chunks of meat into the cage a bit more slowly, letting the audience gasp and worry about how small the door really was, and whether one of the tigers would force through it before she slid it closed again. The audience loves to scare itself, and has a touching faith that a wild animal would rather chase a piece of raw meat on the hoof – like one of them instead of settling down to gnaw a chunk neatly delivered to its waiting claws.
With a flourish, Carlotta slid the trapdoor closed. No one quite dared applaud, but the awed murmur was satisfying enough. She swung across the guard rail again and marched down the aisle, the empty wagon rumbling behind her. I knew that she would come back a few minutes later and fill the water pans as though she were taking an encore.
It was a superb piece of showmanship. I only wished she weren’t performing it here.
I left the almost-deserted Press Gallery and descended the spiral iron staircase. Very carefully. On impulse, as I reached the ground, I bent to stare into the shadowed area beneath it. But it was empty.
I turned to find Dave Prendergast smiling wanly at me. He looked very seedy – but tractable. It was no time to ask him whether he had seen Rose Chesne-Malvern lately. He had too much imagination to be able to deal with that sort of question.
‘Hello, Dave,’ I said. ‘How’s business?’
‘Good, Doug, very good. The overnighters are queuing up for the Product, to make pussy’s night more comfortable. And we should do a rushing business tomorrow when the rest of them get here. What else can you expect?’ His smile widened. ‘We’re preaching to the converted. As soon as we find out the points that appeal to them most, we’ll incorporate them into our television commercials – and we’ll be home and dry.’
He might have chosen his words more carefully, but I made allowances for his condition and nodded. Gerry didn’t do things by halves. Dave had obviously gone through the afternoon on automatic pilot. But I had every confidence in him. His automatic pilot was probably more efficient than any lesser man’s eight cylinders.
‘I’ve been thinking, Doug,’ he said.
‘Have you?’ I tried not to groan. Gerry hadn’t used sufficient judgment in choosing the drinks, after all. For Dave, that last one should have been chloral hydrate.
‘Quite a lot,’ he said earnestly. ‘Gerry is right. There isn’t any sense in bothering the police with my theory, is there?’
‘None at all,’ I agreed with relief. Gerry had done his job well, after all.
‘I mean, as Gerry said, if they haven’t already thought of it themselves, they won’t appreciate my pointing it out to them. It might even stop them getting to the same theory, in the long run, because they wouldn’t like to admit they hadn’t thought of it first, and –’
One of the big cats screamed in challenge, the other backed it with a tremendous roar. Dave winced and lifted a slightly shaking hand to his forehead.
‘Could you watch the stand for a few minutes, Doug? I’ll be right back.’
I stepped up into the stand and he tottered away. From my position, I could see the spiral staircase leading up to the Press Gallery, and most of the Big Cage. The tigers were in opposite corners, tearing at their meat. At least, the one in the farther corner was. The one near to me seemed to be a rather more delicate eater – perhaps this was Thisbe?
Head tilted to one side, the giant cat gnawed carefully at the meat, instead of ripping off chunks the way the other one was doing. I had the sudden suspicion that Carlotta had not checked to make sure the meat was completely thawed – a smaller cat, trying to eat a deep-frozen fillet, would be acting in just the same way. But there was nothing I could do about it. I didn’t think the big cat would appreciate my motives if I tried to take it away from her until it defrosted a bit more.
Dave came back, clutching a glass of fizzing liquid. Thanks, Doug.’ He sipped at it morosely. ‘I think I can last a while longer now.’
I nodded and slipped away, no more in the mood for conversation than he was. Rose Chesne-Malvern hadn’t been out of sight for a moment all day, she must be lurking around somewhere tonight.
Trying to look as though it were just one of my routine patrols, checking to see that everything was going smoothly, I began strolling up and down the aisles, nodding to the Exhibitors penning their cats for the night.
Some of the Exhibitors had already settled their cats and left – at least, they’d thought their cats were settled. Probably the cats would settle when the lights went out, which would be soon now. Meanwhile, they were restless.
Could you blame them? They were pampered pets, admired and petted by everyone who called. Now, suddenly, they had been taken from home, shut up in this pen, and – worst of all – no one was paying enough attention to them. They wouldn’t know that the piece of cardboard in the upper corner of the cage read, ‘Please Do Not Touch The Exhibit’ (although a few crafty ones had clawed it down and were sitting on it). They simply thought they’d lost all their charm, and were going wild. Some of them sulked, most of them paced the front of their pens, calling out brazenly to the passers-by and rubbing the top of their heads against the mesh in an anxious plea for affection.
I strolled along the aisles, whenever possible (that is, when I wasn’t being observed), pausing to scratch an ear or head. After all, weren’t the cats as much my clients as the Exhibition Committee? My job was to keep up morale when it was flagging.
I was in the Cream and Blue-Cream Longhair aisle, cheering the lot of a lonely little Cream Longhair, when I sensed an angry presence behind me. I turned, carelessly leaving my fingers still thrust through the mesh, absently stroking a nose.
‘Well!’ she said angrily. She was a short, sharp little creature, ruffled up like an angry hen, and she was looking at me as though she had caught me with a fistful of catnip and an empty sack in my hand.
‘It’s all right, madam.’ I drew away hastily. ‘I’m the Public Relations Officer for this Exhibition.’
‘And when did you last wash your hands?’ she demanded.
There must be an answer to that. Besides, they didn’t look very dirty to me. I backed a little farther away.
‘Oh, I’ve been watching you,’ she went on. ‘I’ve seen you – petting every cat in the place. Not caring that you might spread disease from one to the other. It’s a disgrace! If you are the Public Relations Officer, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. You’re setting a bad example to the Public.’
Her voice was dying away as she opened the cage and pulled out her cat. When I looked back, she was brushing its fur. I continued on my way. There had still been no sign of Rose Chesne-Malvern anywhere.
The last aisle was occupied by some Colourpoints. They looked like Siamese gone wrong. Perhaps they were. Long, fluffy coats, with unmistakable Siamese markings: the dark mask, ears, legs and tail. They were incongruous, appealing, and thoroughly preoccupied with settling in. It was just as well they were in the last aisle, they reminded me so strongly of Pandora, I wanted to get back and see how she was doing.
And that was where I found Rose Chesne-Malvern. As white-faced and vindictive as the indignant owner who had just set upon me, she was berating poor Penny. Pandora lurked in her cage, watching with hooded, brooding eyes.
‘... dare you? My prize exhibit! Who are you, anyway? What are you doing here?’
‘Good evening, Mrs Chesne-Malvern.’ For once, I was the one coming up from behind. ‘I see you’ve met my secretary.’
‘Your secretary?’ She was somewhat mollified. ‘Is that who she is? But what is she doing with my –?’ Pandora heard my voice. That deadly accurate little paw flicked out and disposed of the latch in a flash. Another flash of fur and she was crouched on my shoulder, nagging like the rest of them. Somehow, though, it was the best nagging I’d heard all day. Perhaps because most of the sting was taken out of it by the way she was rubbing her chin against my ear.
Rose Chesne-Malvern froze. ‘What are you doing to my cat?’
I shrugged. She ought to have been able to see that I wasn’t doing anything to her cat. On the other hand, her cat was nuzzling a wet nose behind my ear.
‘Come here, Pandora,’ Rose Chesne-Malvern ordered crisply.
Pandora continued complaining softly to me. I reached up and patted her reassuringly. I sympathized with her, but there was little I could do. She was Rose Chesne-Malvern’s property.
The gesture seemed to infuriate Rose Chesne-Malvern. ‘Pandora, come down here instantly!’ She was a great one for pulling rank, but Pandora continued insubordinate. She had turned to face Rose now, and I could feel one ear flicking restlessly against my cheek, as she continued her jeremiad.
Among the things she was complaining about, I wouldn’t be surprised to learn, was that Rose Chesne-Malvern’s sharp voice hurt her ears.
‘I said, Come Here!’ Rose reached up, but Pandora retreated. Rose caught her by one of her hind legs and pulled sharply. ‘Come down!’
The next few seconds are pretty much of a blur. Pandora hooked her claws into everything hookable and dug in. Rose Chesne-Malvern continued to pull. I heard a nasty tearing sound and hoped it was only my suit.
I tried to be philosophical and reflected that, if my film client ever raised the backing for his projected Pirate picture, I was a cinch for a bit part, wearing a gold earring. One of my ears had just been thoroughly pierced.
Finally, I disentangled myself from them. Rose and Pandora, both breathing heavily and eyeing each other with mutual loathing, had retreated to a corner.
‘Come over here, Douglas.’ Marcus Opal took my elbow and steered me solicitously into his stall. ‘Let me see those scratches ... I have a little First Aid kit here ...’ He had, too. But I wouldn’t have called it a little one. It was the biggest, most comprehensive one I had ever seen. Of course, considering the disposition of his cat, it ought to have been.
He dabbed at my wounds expertly, with various preparations. He seemed particularly concerned with my ear, then gave his diagnosis. ‘You’re very lucky. That just barely escapes the necessity for stitches.’
Precious was crouched with his nose against the mesh of his pen, regarding me speculatively. When he saw me looking at him, he growled something softly, interrogatively. That damned cat was still trying to communicate with me – and I still didn’t know what he was on about. I decided to take it as an expression of sympathy.
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘Actually, it only hurts when I laugh,’
‘You have won him over,’ Marcus Opal said. ‘I wonder –’ he hesitated – ‘if you’d like to give him his supper. He still won’t take anything from me.’
I accepted the tin of cat food and decanted it into a bowl. Marcus Opal drew back and I pushed the bowl into the pen. Precious sniffed at it and began eating slowly, some deep rumblings still coming from his throat to tell me that he wanted more than this.
‘And furthermore,’ Rose Chesne-Malvern flung across the barrier at me, ‘I’m staying at the Exhibition tonight.’
I wondered who had told her that I had been sleeping in her room, and then I saw Hugo Verrier’s face behind her, grinning maliciously. Gerry was right, there was bad blood in that family.
That’s quite all right, madam,’ I said. ‘I prefer the couch in the Press Gallery.’ I waited for a guilty start from one or both of them. At least it should have wiped that smirk off Hugo Verrier’s face, but it didn’t.
‘Rose,’ Hugo said, ‘come and have a drink. I want to talk to you.’ She didn’t seem too pleased.
‘And I want to talk to you,’ she said. That wiped the smirk off his face.
Before they left, she put some milk into Pandora’s pen. Pandora twitched with irritation. I watched, fascinated. I had never seen anything like it before. Her shoulders moved, as though in a shrug, at the same time, her loose skin seemed to ripple upwards and collect in wrinkles just below her neck. It stayed there for a second, then shuddered back into place.
She flicked her ears, then turned her back on the milk, hunching down at the back of her pen, face to the wall, tail tucked tightly along the length of her body. She was a cat who had renounced the world, and milk had no further interest for her.
Rose Chesne-Malvern hesitated a moment, perhaps wondering if Pandora might be starting a hunger strike, under the influence of Precious’s example. I was a bit worried about that, myself.
‘I’ll be back,’ she warned me, ‘to use my room. And I’ll thank you not to go near my cat, in my absence.’
I bowed slightly, consoling myself with one thought. The Committee had hired me, so Rose Chesne-Malvern could not withhold payment in a fit of pique, as she seemed quite capable of doing at this moment.
At least I had the sympathy of the Committee. ‘That woman should be shot!’ Helena Keswick said bitterly. ‘She hasn’t an ounce of genuine feeling in her whole body. She can’t love anything – she just wants trophies.’
I nodded, unsure of whether she were condemning Rose Chesne-Malvern on my behalf, or on Pandora’s.
‘Disgraceful!’ Marcus Opal said. ‘There should be laws preventing people from owning animals unless they really care for them.’ He glanced at Precious. ‘Care deeply.’
Again I nodded. Betty Lington strolled across the aisle, carrying Silver Fir. ‘Would you like to hold her?’ she asked, thrusting the animal at me, as though conferring a consolation prize. I had to take it.
Silver Fir lay flaccid in my arms. One pair of arms was as good as another to her. She lifted her head to a better angle and her empty little eyes scanned the area, as though wondering where the cameras were. I stroked her absently, and a few shimmering white hairs detached themselves and floated languidly on to my dark suit. Unfortunately, one cat wasn’t as good as another.
Kellington Dasczo had a more practical solution. Firmly penning Pearlie King, he crossed the aisle too. ‘Come and have a drink,’ he said. ‘It’s the only remedy. Drown your sorrows.’
I was in no mood to argue. Handing an indifferent Silver Fir back to her mistress, I went across the road to the pub with Kellington.
When we returned, after ‘Time’ had been called, Pandora was still turned to the wall.
Kellington patted my arm. ‘Try to get some sleep, old man,’ he said, rather as one speaking to the recently bereaved. ‘It will look better in the morning.’
Morning meant the day of the Exhibition. And then – I’d had enough to be feeling maudlin – I’d never see Pandora again.
In a vicious mood, I charged up the spiral stairs and flung the door open, flooding the Press Gallery with light, hoping to catch them. The room was empty.
From the Gallery, I looked down on the Special Exhibits Aisle. Most stalls were dark now. Only Kellington Dasczo still had a night light going. As I watched, he turned it out and headed for the bedroom corridor. Now the only light was coming from behind the plate-glass window of the Press Gallery. It cast a glare nearly the length of the aisle, probably disturbing the cats trying to sleep.
I had no quarrel with them. I turned the light out and fumbled my way to the couch in darkness.
I slept fitfully, but I slept. I had no idea of the time when the door of the Press Gallery opened. ‘Who’s there?’
No reply, but I could see the lighter shade of grey where the door stood open against the blackness. There was no darker shadow in the doorway, though.
